A Not So Silent Night
by Draconian Scribe
Summary: Draco's nights were no longer silent. They were far from holy. Nothing was calm. Nothing was bright. Between the ruddy eels, the veiled insults to his hair, and the demonic entity known as Muggle "science," he would never sleep in heavenly peace – and it was all HER fault. Unofficial sequel to "Quarrels & Quaffles." WARNING: MATURE! Cover image by nonidipriv (deviantART).
1. A Not So Silent Night

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

**WARNINGS: Explicit sexual situations, hard kink, mild violence, psychological trauma, and strong profanity.**

**NOTE: This story **is dedicated to BlueRosesJane (HAPPY BIRTHDAY!), and occurs within the same universe as "Quarrels & Quaffles," an equally scandalous piece of work that provides some additional context for the casual references that are scattered throughout the chaos. Because this is an _unofficial _sequel, the original one-shot is not a mandatory read, but it's still highly recommended! Unless stated otherwise, the events of this story take place before the final Quidditch match of the season.****

* * *

><p>EPISODE ONE: A NOT SO SILENT NIGHT<p>

* * *

><p>Theodore Nott lay upon his bed, one hand on his wand and one hand on his <em>other <em>wand. After all, he had to be prepared. In the unlikely event that one of his gormless Housemates walked in on his after-class wank session, he had a _Petrificus Totalus _and an _Obliviate _at the ready.

But he doubted that he'd need them. Simply put, after living with the same blokes for over six years, he was feeling pretty damn confident that he'd sussed out all of their routines by now. Crabbe and Goyle were either in detention, eating, or scuttering about on Malfoy's orders, like a pair of overgrown and mentally stunted house-elves. Zabini was most likely in the common room, pretending to do his homework while amusing himself with the comings and goings of mere mortals. Either that, or Parkinson had latched upon him like a barnacle plasters itself onto an impassive rock, leaving Zabini no choice but to endure her whiny screeches about her precious Drakey-Poo and how he'd rejected her—_again_—because he had better things to do, and, apparently, better bitches to do them with.

Really, it was no coincidence that the recurring theme here was Malfoy. Everything revolved around Malfoy. And the pompous prick liked it that way. Ever since Drake became Head Boy and moved out into his own private quarters, Theo hardly even saw the guy anymore. Today, he was probably off with Ms Friday, or whatever he called his featured slag of the day. If only every bloke were lucky enough to have one bird for each day of the week. And some real talented birds they were, if the new spring in his friend's step was anything to go by.

They were best mates and all, but it was more than a little irritating when he couldn't even come up with a decent wank fantasy because he had to try and picture a bint that his mate _hadn't _fucked. He'd learned the hard way that rutting against a sloppy second who was incapable of moaning anything besides "yes" and "Draco" was, quite literally, anti-climactic. And frankly, if he eliminated blokes, that left only three options. A Weasley, a Hufflepuff, or Granger.

Alright, even _he_ had to admit that Granger had grown _very _easy on the eyes over the past few years. And he supposed that there _was _something kinky about picturing the pert little swot on her knees and sucking him off until he came all over her pristinely pressed uniform, but it was her opening her mouth in the first place that was the ultimate anti-boner. The mere notion of her rabbiting on about _Hogwarts, A History, _elf rights, and international regulations was causing his hard-on to rapidly deflate. What kind of sick bastard gets off on that? That prig was _never_ going to get fucked.

As he strained to think of a decent-looking Hufflepuff—he could hardly remember any of their names, let alone their faces—he was struck by a sudden flashback to last week, when he'd walked in late to breakfast because Goyle had dossed down on top of his Transfiguration project and he was forced to put back together six weeks' worth of work in less than six minutes. Of course, he couldn't just let the blithering troll _leave_ without demanding proper payment, but with one less crony flanking Malfoy's sides, he'd unwittingly left his best mate wide open for attack.

Thankfully, he'd entered the Great Hall just moments after the supposedly traumatic event had occurred, but not before the fuming transfer student from Salem had torn past him with tears of hatred in her eyes, her affections evidently spurned by the seething, self-appointed Prince of Slytherin, who had proceeded to spend the remainder of breakfast casting sanitation Charms on his robes like he'd been manhandled by a rabid horde of ginger Mudbloods. From Hufflepuff.

Perhaps he ought to be more concerned about what had caused his friend's oddly disproportionate and vehement reaction to the bint, but right then, Theo couldn't care less. She was hot, she was Slytherin, and best of all, her quim was Malfoy-free. She was perfect.

Hardening with newfound inspiration, he tightened his grip upon his todger and slowly began to pump it up and down as it swelled and rose to full prominence. _Oh, yeah. Oh, fuck, yeah… _Blast, if only he could remember her name. He reckoned it was something really short that started with a "K." Or was it "J"? Shite, shite, shite… No, it was a definitely a "J." Maybe. Julie, Jill, Jean…

"Oh, _Jane," _he moaned, rubbing his thumb over his leaking tip and roughly smearing the sticky pre-cum down along his shaft, his hand sliding up and down its slick length.

He threw his head back and groaned as images of the dark-haired, olive-skinned beauty seared behind his eyelids. He'd had it with passive fucking. He wanted someone more aggressive, more uninhibited, and he just knew that the feisty, bold little American would be a right wildcat in bed, if her assault on Malfoy were anything to go by. In the back of his mind, he knew that one wank wasn't going to be enough. Thoughts of her ripping his trousers down, growling in that husky voice of hers, and deep-throating him with hungry, slavering slurps and sucks were quickly sending him over the edge. _Fuck, _he needed to have her.

He wagered that she wouldn't be interested in Malfoy for very long after the cruel and _extremely_ public humiliation she'd suffered at his witless hands. Well, that pathetic arse's loss was his gain, because in Theo's opinion, letting a beaut with baps like that go to waste was a crime against the very definition of manhood. No, she needed to be filled with cock like a little whore, and he'd make dead sure that it was _him_ stuffing her pretty cunt and stretching her out like she'd never been stretched before. He'd shove her down to her knees and make her suck him dry—suck him until he couldn't stand—and the wicked minx would relish every drop of it. He'd make her a slave to his dick, and every night, he'd send her to bed with her belly, head, and snatch _full _of the pleasure he could bring her.

He allowed the visions to take hold of him, as he imagined her naked and bent over his bed, her arse swaying in the air and her sleek, chestnut hair draped over her shoulder as she spread her glistening pussy lips wide for the fucking of her life. With each increasingly fevered stroke of his hand, his bollocks blistered and tensed from the burgeoning pressure, seconds away from blowing his wad all over the sheets. His hips had begun to jerk off the bed, seeking completion from the tight ring of his fist. Gods, he hoped she was a screamer. The image of him pinning her against the shower wall and ramming his long, hard cock into her as his name reverberated off the tiles, synchronising with the soapy, wet smacks of their skin, was finally his undoing.

He exploded with hoarse shouts of her name and great, wracking spurts of pearly white cum that dripped through his fingers, splashed onto his chest, and trickled down his thighs. The spasms rippled through him in gut-wrenching waves as his hips undulated in helpless, shallow thrusts, momentarily causing him to black out from the sheer ecstasy of his release. And just when he was about to finish emptying himself all over the coverlet, the door creaked open and in stumbled the Head Boy himself.

_FUCK._

Theo bolted upright, reeling at the sudden rush of blood to his head and struggling to steady his aim as his vision blurred and swam in a distorted haze of shapes and colours. Taking a shot in the dark, he fired off a Stunning Spell, the resulting shatter of some unfortunate object indicating that he'd missed.

Brilliant. Not only had he made a spectacular fool out of himself and given the king of the Slytherin social hierarchy enough condemning evidence to rag on him for the rest of his days at Hogwarts, but he'd also assaulted the Head Boy. Just. Fucking. Brilliant. He groaned, bracing himself for the inevitable counterattack. Which never came.

He took several deep breaths, as if by doing so, he could somehow will his eyes to refocus, only to nearly fall off the bed in shock at the disturbing sight before him. It took him a moment to wring out his sex-soused brain and identify the intruder.

Sure enough, it was Draco. But at the same time, it _wasn't _Draco.

He was standing there. Just standing there, with his haunted grey eyes gazing off into some unknown dimension that was inaccessible to the living. He was wearing his Quidditch uniform, even though there wasn't a match today, and as far as Theo knew, there wasn't even practice. Draco's arms hung listlessly by his sides as his wand clattered to the ground, joining the splintered wreckage of wood and broken glass that had once framed the hideous visage of Goyle's equally troll-like mother. Theo _would _feel guilty, but if one looked at it from a certain perspective, he was doing his Housemates a favour, really…

Draco didn't even appear to register any of this, and with unabashed relief, Theo praised Salazar for his good fortune and hastily eradicated all traces of his misdeeds as Drake looked on with deadened, unseeing eyes. He siphoned off his ejaculate, redressed, straightened out his sheets, and cleared off the floor, even going so far as to repair Goyle's blasted picture frame and levitating it back in place before slowly approaching his friend.

Merlin's rod, he looked like a dementor had swallowed up his soul. He was staring off into the emptiness like one of those hollow shells that were depicted in his otherwise dry and dreadfully boring textbook. Clearly, something was horribly wrong.

"You alright, mate?" he checked cautiously, his wand at the ready. Draco was awfully predictable in loads of ways, yet astonishingly volatile in others. As a general rule of thumb, it always paid to be prepared.

"Brilliant," he deadpanned, and without further ado, toppled face-first into the ground.

_Shite. _This was serious. He inched towards Draco's seemingly lifeless form, considering his options. He could just leave him there, but there was always the chance of one of his Housemates deviating from their usual routine, and he didn't fancy himself getting lucky twice. He could also use a Concealment Charm, but he was concerned that someone might step on him. He supposed he could always move the body, but if someone walked in right then, _he _would be the one looking suspicious. Besides, there was no telling if or when his friend would ever awaken again. Drake was _out. _

This left only two options—attempt to revive Draco himself or get help.

Unfortunately, the Slytherin social code of conduct frowned upon involving the authorities in _any_ given situation, and he only had two revival spells in his arsenal: _Rennervate, _which supposedly only worked on Stunned individuals, and the Cruciatus Curse, which, in short, was illegal.

Well, he reckoned that he might as well give the first one a try. If that didn't work, then… No, best not to think about that.

_"Rennervate!" _he commanded, pointing his wand at Draco's head. Drake gave a slight twitch, but otherwise did not respond. Theo jabbed him experimentally, still to no avail.

Very well. Time for Plan B. Or "C," if he wanted to get_ really _technical.

With a semblance of calm, Theo rose to his feet, rolled up his sleeves, and took aim. "Sorry, Drake, but I already bought you something for Crimbo, and I am _not _sending out my personal house-elf just to wait in line on Boxing Day and fetch me my refund while I bring up my _own _breakfast, make my _own _bed, and do my _own _fucking wash. So forgive me if I'm not willing to let you die just yet," he bluntly informed the other wizard. Theo took a deep breath to steady his resolve before shouting, _"Cruci—OH, SHIT!"_

Theo darted back in alarm as Draco lunged to his feet, snarling, his teeth bared and his eyes darker than Theo had ever seen them. He stalked towards Theo with murder in his stance, his aristocratic face contorted with madness. Theo continued to edge away from him, doing his best to avoid confrontation with his best mate, even though he reckoned that he was a shade more skilful at duelling. Abruptly, his back hit the wall, and his Slytherin instincts screamed at him to make a run for it. But this was Malfoy, he reasoned! _Malfoy! _And everyone knew that Malfoys were the biggest fucking cowards in the wizarding world. Drake was all bark and no bite. He couldn't carry out a threat to save his life! Could he?

As if to answer his question, Draco smashed his fist into the wall, right where Theo's head had been only seconds before.

_"What the fuck?" _Theo yelled.

Draco drew back his arm, unfazed by the beads of blood that slowly began to trickle from the raw cuts upon his hand. He peered at Theo as if seeing him for the first time, cocking his head in a demented and chillingly inhuman manner. "Theodore," he mused, his voice eerily calm and detached. "What a pleasant surprise."

Theo shuddered in disgust. No one ever called him by his full name, except for his father. And hearing Drake say it was nothing short of creepy.

"What's the matter with you?" Theo hissed, rising back to his full height. They stood roughly even, although Theo reckoned he was about half an inch taller. Whatever the case, it eased his discomfort somewhat to stare his mad friend in the eye and face him on equal footing. "You're acting very… odd!"

Unexpectedly, Draco burst into peals of maniacal laughter. The sound caused his hairs to stand on end. His worst fears were confirmed. His best mate was officially unhinged and sailing over Dagenham, two stops beyond Barking Station. In Theo's haste to justify to himself that Malfoys were nothing but cowards, he'd forgotten one minor detail.

Draco wasn't a mere Malfoy. He was the nephew of Bellatrix Lestrange.

At long last, the chortling subsided, and Draco paused to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes before turning back to Theo with a disturbingly bright smile that was completely at odds with the dark shadows that writhed within his eyes, "No, Theodore, I'm not the one who's odd. But would you like to know who is?"

"Er… Sure," Theo gulped, not liking the demonic gleam he saw in his friend's eyes. Not one bit.

_"GOOD!" _Draco bellowed, causing Theo to jolt back a few steps. He held his wand out in front of him like a shield as Draco stormed towards him, abandoning all pretence, his face twisting into a bestial contortion of bloodlust and rage. _"BECAUSE LIKE IT OR NOT, THEODORE, YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT!"_

"I don't want to fight you, Drake," Theo warned, in a last-ditch attempt to rationalise with his friend, or more accurately, what remained of him. "But so help me, I _will _defend myself—"

"I'm not going to kill _you, _you fucking twat," Draco spat. "I'M GOING TO KILL THAT LITTLE _CUNT _FOR LEAVING ME!"

Draco had ceased advancing towards him, but this did little to convince Theo of his safety. Unrestrained bursts of raw magic erupted throughout the vicinity, crackling through the air, ripping up the floorboards, and sending a shrieking Mrs Goyle flying across the room in shards for the second time that hour. Theo kept his wand raised, struggling to decipher Draco's tirade, even as the walls creaked, the hangings came alive, and a sweeping windstorm of books, quills, unwashed pants, Crabbe's multi-coloured cupcake wrap collection, and various other shreds of collateral damage whirled overhead.

"WHO THE _FUCK_ DOES THAT BITCH THINK SHE IS? SHE CAN'T BREAK UP WITH ME! SHE'S NOT EVEN MY GIRLFRIEND! I _OWN _HER!"

Ah, so this was about one of his fuck toys. But that revelation only made Theo more confused. Couldn't he just find a new girl to be Ms Friday? After all, wasn't that the point of fuck toys? That they were dispensable? _Replaceable? _It wasn't like Drake, or any Slytherin really, to completely lose his sanity over a bint. _Ever._

"FIRST, SHE INSULTS MY LINEAGE, DECLARING ME UNFIT TO FATHER HER CHILDREN! THEN, SHE TELLS ME THAT MY HAIR IS RECEDING, CALLS ME A HOMO, CLAIMS THAT _SHE'S _THE DOMINANT ONE IN THIS RELA—_ARRANGEMENT,_ AND THAT BRUNETTES TRUMP BLONDS _ANY_ DAY!"

Brunettes, brunettes… Theo racked his brain, but no brunettes came to mind. Well, no brunettes that Drake would touch, at any rate. Oh, wait, he must mean Pansy! But that still didn't make any sense. Pans wouldn't even dare to _think _any of those things in Draco's presence, let alone say them to his face and walk away in one piece. Had she really been lucky enough to score an entire day with him—all to herself? Then what was all the whinging in the common room for? Come to think of it, he'd seen _packs _of girls down there lately, crying their eyes out over his insensitive prick of a friend.

What the _devil _was going on here? Had Drake gone exclusive? _HA, _like _buggery _he had! That would be like Crabbe and Goyle learning how to read—unfathomable and _impossible. _Not only did his friend have more commitment issues than a snake that snacked on its own hatchlings, but Theo was also convinced that no woman in her right mind could possibly want to spend _more _than a day attending to Drake's childish needs and his snide attitude if she wasn't getting mind-blowing sex or bags of Galleons out of the equation. There was no denying it—Draco was a selfish bastard. And he was proud of it.

So what exactly was the problem?

"HOW _DARE _SHE INSULT MY INTELLIGENCE? HOW _DARE _SHE ATTEMPT TO POISON MY MIND WITH HER INSIDIOUS TACTICS? HOW _DARE _SHE INSINUTE THAT MERE MUGGLES HOLD KNOWLEDGE FAR GREATER THAN MY OWN? SHE'S GONE _COMPLETELY_ MENTAL! THE HARPY FUCKING _SCREECHED_ AT ME FOR NO _BLOODY _REASON OTHER THAN THE FACT THAT I DON'T HAPPEN TO HAVE _ALL_ OF THE EELS THAT SHE NEEDS FOR HER BLOODY CALCULATIONS! WHAT THE _FUCK_ DOES SHE EVEN NEED EELS FOR?"

Was that supposed to be a rhetorical question? Hell, this conversation was getting stranger and stranger with each word that was spewing out of Drake's gob…

"AND THAT'S NOT ALL!" Draco roared.

Hang on, there was _more?_

"I OFFERED HER THE PRIVILEGE—NO, THE _HONOUR—_TO SPEND THE HOLIDAYS WITH ME, AND NOT ONLY DID THE UNGRATEFUL COW DECLINE, SHE HAD THE NERVE TO DEMAND THAT _I _ACCOMPANY _HER _TO _HER _BOG-STANDARD EXCUSE FOR A HOUSE!"

Cripes, the bint was _poor!_ Which meant that she couldn't be a pureblood, unless she was a Weasley. And last he checked, it was physically impossible for a Weasley to be a brunette. But the fact that she was a pleb and a carrier of hereditary Muggle diseases wasn't even the most disturbing part. No, the _really _disturbing shite was that this could only mean one thing—Drake was _serious. _And not serious as in Sirius Black, but serious about a _girl._

Clearly, the apocalypse was nigh.

"I _REFUSED _TO SUBMIT TO HER SADISTIC WHIMS! AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE SAID TO ME? SHE SAID IT DIDN'T CHANGE A SODDING _THING! _THAT SHE WAS LEAVING ME TO 'RESEARCH ALTERNATIVE OPTIONS,' AND THAT THERE WAS _NOTHING_ I COULD DO TO STOP HER! _'ALTERNATIVE OPTIONS!' _WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN _MEAN? _THAT BETTER NOT MEAN OTHER BLOKES, BECAUSE I WILL FUCKING _RIP APART _ANY BASTARD THAT TOUCHES HER! SHE'S _MINE! _THAT TREACHEROUS BITCH HAS BEEN FUCKING POTTER BEHIND MY BACK—I JUST _KNOW_ IT! THE LYING _WHORE—"_

Draco's voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands as he crumpled in defeat. He shook slightly, and the sight of him in such raw anguish was more terrifying than any rampage Theo had ever witnessed from his friend.

Without warning, Draco lurched towards the wall and compulsively smacked his head against it, letting out a horrid scream of frustration. "SHE CAN GO AHEAD AND LEAVE ME! I DON'T CARE! I DON'T _FUCKING _CARE ABOUT HER! SHE'S NOTHING TO ME! _NOTHING! _NOTHING BUT A FILTHY, WORTHLESS _MUDBLOOD!" _he bellowed, hoarse with madness.

Mudblood… _Mudblood, _he'd said. Theo's eyes went wide as the shards fell into place. _Bugger him sideways with a cucumber._ He couldn't afford to just stand there any longer. He had to do something. And quick.

Right on cue, like some horribly written wizarding drama, Draco drew out his wand and pointed it at his head, and Theo knew that he had only seconds to react before something _really _stupid happened.

He lunged forward, tackled Draco to the ground, and Stunned the crazy bastard, like he _should _have from the moment that stark raving lunatic walked into the room. He could've spared himself the theatrics, not to mention the ringing in his ears. He grimaced at the unconscious heap before him. _So _uncivilised.

Now, instead of plotting ways to "Slytherin" with Jane, he was stuck playing nanny to this cocksucker. _Again. _Un-_fucking-_believable. This was such a fucking waste of his time. What the hell was he supposed to do with him now?

And _Merlin,_ he'd nearly forgotten about the Mudblood! The _Mudblood!_ As in _the _Mudblood! Theo didn't dare to speak or even _think _her name out loud. It was almost as if it were some kind of curse, the mere utterance of which would cause the Malfoy ancestors to strike him down on the spot for his sheer proximity to the sullied flesh of the last remaining heir. If Drake's condition were anything to go by, Theo was perfectly content with listening to his Slytherin sensibilities and staying the fuck out of the guy's business. He could only imagine how _his _father would react if it were him in that situation, and he was _not _going to get involved. In fact, the less he knew, the better. It was the Slytherin way. Lie. And when all else fails, deny, deny, deny…

Don't get him wrong. Drake was like the brother he never had. And when it really came down to it, there wasn't a lot he wouldn't do for him. But this was one war he would have to fight on his own.

On the other hand… Theo would be lying if he said he wasn't the _slightest _bit curious. The thought of Drake, with a Mudblood, not to mention _that _particular Mudblood, was just so obscure, so perverse, so _improbable, _that he had to see it in order to believe it. Against his better judgment, he found himself edging closer and closer towards the body of his insensate friend, a dangerously tempting and exceedingly morbid fascination dancing across his mind.

Who was he kidding? There was no way he could pass this up. This was the disaster of the century. And lying on the floor in front of him was the ultimate window to the sacrilege. It was like trying not to stare at a freak on the side of a road. Or a hideous boil on someone's face. Or a naked woman. _Futile._

Besides, Theo thought he deserved _some_ entertainment after all the shite this fucker had put him through. A little peek never hurt anyone. And Drake would never have to know.

Slowly, he bent his wand towards Draco's head and muttered the incantation.

_"Legilimens."_

* * *

><p>TO BE CONTINUED<p> 


	2. A Not So Holy Night

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

**NOTE: Yes, I know... IT'S ABOUT BLOODY TIME! I swear to Rowling, no matter how long it takes, I will _never_ abandon a story. Thank you so much for your patience (and impatience) and for all of your support throughout the past seven months! Your feedback truly makes a difference, and I did my best to ensure that it was well worth the wait! If not, please accept my sincerest apologies as I retreat into the nearest dark corner and bow my head in shame... Enjoy! :)**

* * *

><p>EPISODE TWO: A NOT SO HOLY NIGHT<p>

* * *

><p>Draco hated the last week before the winter holidays. He hated it more than he hated Weasley. Or Muggle science. Or the Snarfalump plant that had birthed Pansy from its insidious womb. Hell, he hated it more than he hated Potter—well, <em>almost.<em> Because the last week of class meant that there were exams. Exams meant studying. And studying meant no sex.

No. Sex.

_NONE._

For a whole _bloody _week.

It was catastrophic. It was crippling. It was the end of the goddamned world!

How the _fuck _could he have let this happen? Was he out of his _mind?_ He was Draco _fucking _Malfoy! He could _easily _have himself a different bint for each night of the week—no, each night of the _year! _Bints that he could take home to his parents, bints that would gladly crawl to him on their hands and knees, bints that would rather earn an "O" in playing his flute than in a subject as _fucking_ useless as History of Magic! But _no! _Here he was, _enslaved _to the sadistic whims of the most prudish and pernicious swot that he'd ever had the misfortune to encounter! It was an _outrage! _It was a scandal! It was Rita Skeeter's fucking wet dream!

He could just see it now—splashed across the front pages of _The Daily Prophet _and _Witch Weekly _like a congealing wad of bubotuber pus:_ MALFOY HEIR RAVAGED BY MUGGLE-BORN! _His mother would surely faint from the inconceivable shame. And his father—Salazar have mercy, his father…

It was all becoming clear to him now. The old man had been right all along. Muggle-borns were little more than parasites, incubated within the fires of Muggle Hell and hatched beneath the bellies of feral swine. They existed solely to pollute the once sacred realm of his forebears, and it wouldn't be long before this pathetic excuse for a school was overrun and the land was converted into a mass breeding ground. Already, they'd managed to seep into the foundations, festering and preying upon the magical blood of their victims, and that bushy-haired harridan was the worst of them all.

She was like a disease, blistering beneath his skin and forever ruining him for mortal women. Because of _her, _he went to bed each night writhing in agony, bemoaning the cruel twists of fate, and infected with a perpetual erection that was beyond the salvation of his own hand. Slowly, but surely, she was going to break him. And she was enjoying every shitting, agonising second of his demise.

He was, quite literally, dying for her.

Gods, just listen to him. Even his inner monologue was starting to sound like another one of those heinous romance novels he'd nicked off the Muggle Studies professor for research.

And really, why the fuck did people even call them "romance" novels? That rubbish wasn't even _close_ to romance. It was more like porn. Except without pictures. And what was the point of that? Porn without pictures! _Honestly! _What fuckwit came up with that load of saggy old bollocks? _Probably a woman,_ he scoffed. A _Muggle _woman. Why would he want to _read _about a pair of Muggle mongoloids banging about when he could just as easily—oh, right, he _couldn't. _Which conveniently brings him back to his main point:

Romance wasn't bliss. It was a bloody pain in the arse.

Hermione wasn't constantly doting upon him like the heroines of _Rough and Ready _and _The Very Virile Viking,_ with their demure ways and constant preoccupation with the hero's deep voice, smouldering eyes, and rippling, masculine perfection. What was that term the Muggles used again? Ah, yes, a "Greek god." Those endlessly droning cows seemed to be particularly fond of that phrase.

But not _this _cow. She would rather rabbit on about the finer aspects of Greek architecture, which she'd seen pictures of inside a _book,_ than the finer aspects of _his _architecture, which was erected right before her stupid, lovely eyes. He didn't have the foggiest idea what the Greeks had that the Malfoys didn't, but he was fairly certain that he at least warranted the title of "god." Women worshipped him. Hell, if _he _were on the cover of _Rough and Ready, _he wouldn't even _need _to take his shirt off.

Fuck Adonis. He was Draco Malfoy—the _dragon. _There was a constellation in the sky with his fucking name on it! He was even mentioned in the school motto, inscribed beneath the pissing crest! He was the sole heir to _centuries _of pureblood ancestry, and he was about to throw it all away! For _her! _Why couldn't he just coerce that ungrateful bitch into his bed by "overwhelming her soft curves with his hard muscles," "squishing her buttermilk bosoms with his chiselled chest," "sticking his stalk into her pink petals," or something as crudely permissible as that? What was the point of being beautiful if she was the only girl in the world who didn't agree with him? For fuck's sake, why did his life always have to be so bloody difficult?

Sometimes he wondered if the countless orgasmic confessions that he managed to wring out of the slippery little tart were actually directed towards his cock and not the rest of him.

Honestly, if there were any story that could do his current predicament justice, it would be "The Warlock's Hairy Heart." He was clearly the victim of this tale, and he wagered that even Beedle himself would agree that _she _was the monster here. She was practically the warlock incarnate, leaving him on the ground to bleed as she clawed his heart out and claimed it as her own. Disturbing, really, how a mere children's author could write more realistic romance than any other delusional duffer out there.

Beedle's stories were quite sensible in comparison. When he was a boy, his mother would read them to him every night before bed. His favourite had been "The Wizard and the Hopping Pot," and he fondly remembered sniggering into the covers and clapping his hands with fiendish delight at the part when the Hopping Pot finally came to life and saved the Wizard from his unruly Muggle neighbours. It chased those savages down and swallowed them whole, like they bloody deserved, and he did _not_ appreciate Hermione's attempts to ruin one of his most precious childhood memories with her shoddy "translations." According to her and her dodgy _sources, _the original runes stated that the Hopping Pot was used for brewing potions to _help _the Muggles, not subdue them.

What.

A.

Load.

Of.

_TOSH!_

What the fuck did _she _know about it? She was raised by barbarians, who fed her tales about the treacherous Sinderela and her bloodthirsty brethren as they traversed the land, brandishing crude metal weapons, stealing from innocent witches and wizards, and cutting them down once they'd outlived their usefulness! Clearly, _he _wasn't the one being brainwashed here. _He _grew up in a proper wizarding household, with _two _magical parents, and she had the _nerve_ to act as if she knew his favourite fairy tale better than he did? She practically grew up in a _cave! She _was the one who had "the refinement of a Flesh-Eating Slug"! Compared to _him,_ she was positively _primitive! _And quite frankly, her competency with a wand after living in such abject conditions was _astounding!_

As a boy, the incongruity of her upbringing and her resultant abilities had vexed him to no end, and as a man, it had merely contributed to her alien allure. Fuck, _yeah,_ the sex was explosive, but so were the rows.

In reality, they only spent half of their time together shagging. The other half they spent arguing. And arguing about how pointless arguing was. Even when they were approaching the edge of soppiness, they were arguing about it. Or subtly weaving the confessions _into _their arguments—often accompanied by unoriginal, iniquitous phrases such as "If you _really _cared about me, you would…" and other nasty mind games that normally characterised people in abusive relationships. If they were actually _in_ a relationship. Which they _weren't. _

No, this was beyond the mere social construct known as "dating." She was _his, _and he was _hers._ No blithering, no hedging, and no faffing about. She _belonged _to him. End of discussion. There were no giggles and flowery words to be exchanged. There was no "bathing in the golden light of love," "lifting their hearts upon golden wings," or "soaring towards radiant suns of perfect joy." There was only pain. And pleasure. Which also involved pain. Not once had he ever had to tell her how wrong he was for her (when it was really all about how wrong she was for _him),_ or how he didn't deserve her (no one deserved to remain chained to that insufferable Muggle spawn—not even Weasley… _especially _not Weasley). She already knew. In fact, she made it a point to remind him of such pesky details on a regular basis.

And so the snake fell in love with the lion. What a stupid lion. What a sick, masochistic snake. Hell, if he ever used any of those pathetic Muggle lines on her, her immediate reaction would be to slap her hand onto his forehead and ask him if he was feeling all right.

Clearly, he was going to have to resort to drastic measures. He needed a weapon—a _secret_ weapon. And not just any secret weapon—_the _secret weapon. He'd been holding out for weeks, partly out of merciful propriety and purely out of the _goodness_ of his Slytherin soul, but despite his fall from grace, and consequently, the family tree, he was still a Malfoy, and he would not be denied what was rightfully his. That conniving, cock-teasing shrew would know her place before the end.

It was time to bring out his Quidditch uniform.

* * *

><p>There was only one flaw in his otherwise pristine plan. It was a minor detail, really. He'd simply forgotten that Hermione Granger—Head Girl, brightest witch of their age, and PROPERTY OF DRACO MALFOY—was raised by wand-less savages, and thus was far more likely to resort to the fist-in-the-face tactic over the usual jinx or hex favoured by proper wizarding society.<p>

Following an unsuccessful break-in attempt involving the abuse of Head Boy jurisdiction, extortion of the password from Longbottom, taking two Gryffindor females hostage, lugging their unconscious deadweight up the enchanted stairwell, cursing the Founders every step of the way, in addition to every fuckwitted Mudblood who actually thought that Heads shared the same living quarters in this shitty, gender-segregated institution, getting caught by Hermione, initiating a whispered argument about the futility of revising (in her case, she didn't _need_ to study, and in his case, he figured that if he didn't know the material by now, it was too late anyway), yelling at her, getting slapped, getting even harder, and being punished for that perfectly natural reaction, here he was, lying bruised and forsaken in the fucking hospital wing, his green and silver robes woefully intact and clinging uselessly to his raging, sweaty body.

He couldn't wait to give that little cunt what she deserved. By the time he was through with her, she'd be _begging_ him to put her out of her misery. He was going to make her _scream _for mercy and feast upon her quivering flesh until she was raw and trembling and couldn't fucking take it anymore—

"Ah, Mr Malfoy, I see that you're finally awake," announced a cool voice to his left. His eyes immediately shot open, only to squeeze back shut as he groaned at the ruinous sight before him. Salazar help him, he was never going to leave the hospital wing alive.

The nurse continued on as if nothing were amiss, consulting her clipboard as she briskly informed him, "It appears that you've been scheduled for release later this evening. I shall have to conduct a physical examination in order to evaluate your condition and prescribe the most effective form of treatment. Are there any questions or concerns that I can assist you with before we get started?"

It was all over. Nothing was going to save him now. She could ruddy well do whatever the fuck she pleased with him.

"No, Nurse Granger," he somehow managed to rasp out.

"Excellent," she replied, setting her clipboard aside and primly adjusting the little white cap nestled upon her wavy tresses. "Let's begin, shall we?"

He tensed and nodded as she approached, the heels on her stocking-clad feet clicking across the tiles and her tight, crisp gown rustling against the sheer suspenders that skimmed down her thighs. Swallowing thickly, he tore his gaze away from the slivers of lace that peeked out over the top of her buttoned-up ensemble, willing himself to retain some semblance of humanity as she neatly folded back his robes, undid his Quidditch leathers with excruciatingly methodical dexterity, and leaned forward to inspect his erection.

Under normal circumstances, he would've been utterly ashamed of his complete lack of composure, but she always knew exactly how to make him crumble. He was so fucking hard that his dick was about to break off like a stonking tree branch. The foreskin of his prick had already retracted behind the flared head, and the instant her hot breath fluttered across the sensitive ridge, his hips immediately snapped up of their own accord, thrusting towards the moist, rouge lips that were so painfully _close _to inhaling every last inch of his desire. He growled and nearly ripped into her on the spot as she drew back and coyly evaded him.

Sweeping over the juddering protrusion with wicked, calculating eyes, she remarked, "Mr Malfoy, you seem to be experiencing a slight case of involuntary muscle movement in the pelvic region, which may be an indication of severe vasocongestion. I'm afraid that if the swelling of your corpora cavernosa escalates any further, I will have no choice but to restrain you and defer to unorthodox procedures in order to rectify the situation."

He swore to Merlin, if that prissy little nurse was going to insist upon lecturing him like _that _and verbally whipping him into submission with her Muggle nonsense, he didn't think his corporal-_fucking_-nova could get any harder. There was barely any blood left in his brain to keep his pulse racing, his skin sweating, and his lungs panting with the urge to scream, _FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME_—

"_Incarcerous," _she ordered, a teeming mass of conjured ropes snaking around his wrists and ankles, wrenching them apart, and binding him to the rickety frame of his cot.

He gave a startled yelp, which quickly ascended into a mortifyingly high-pitched sob as she seized his prick, engulfed it in her mouth, and proceeded to lick and suck him like a favourite lolly. He leapt and twisted against his binds, shouting himself hoarse with incomprehensible incantations of praise and relief, his vision greying around the edges and his body straining towards imminent, mind-shattering ecstasy.

She wrung him out with ruthless efficiency, taking him deep with a swift slurp and withdrawing him so slowly, he could feel every sucking pull of her lips, every flick of her tongue, and every moan that shuddered through his shaft. Saliva leaked from her open, reddened mouth as she savoured his meat, the searing rivulets trickling down the length of his prick and dripping onto his balls.

"Oh, _fuck!" _he swore. "Oh, YES! OH, _FUCK, YES! _Suck me, Nurse Granger! _SUCK ME!" _She hummed with amusement at his breathless pleas and shuddering whimpers. He couldn't stop moaning. She nipped him playfully in retaliation, causing his hips to jerk off the mattress. His bonds tightened in response, restricting him to shallow, desperate thrusts as she began to slide him in faster and suck him harder. Every now and then, she drew his cock out with a slurping pop and dropped down to curl her hot tongue around his bollocks, and one by one, siphon them into her wet heat and squeeze the throbbing sacs with her lips. Then, she licked her way back up and pinned him down with a predatory gaze as she resumed her greedy, suckling smacks.

He didn't even last two minutes before he threw his head back and nearly wept as she sucked his orgasm straight out of him. She pulled back and eagerly suctioned the head, swallowing him up as he burst into thick, creamy strands that streamed erratically down her throat. As the propulsions dribbled off, she continued to pump her little hands up and down his pulsing length, milking every last drop and peppering the tip with light, cajoling kisses.

When she'd finished bathing every sticky inch of him with her tongue, she released him with a smug _"Finite Incantatum" _as he slumped into the cot, hair matted with sweat and his eyes drifting shut in contentment. His chest burned and his prick was now hanging numb and insensate between his legs. He registered a slight spring in the cot as the nurse stood back up, the rustle of fabric as she righted herself, and the click of her heels as she strutted towards the counter where she'd left her clipboard.

"It appears that you've responded rather well to the prescribed method of treatment," she concluded, the husky tone of her voice sending spasms of revival shooting down his cock. "Prognosis is favourable for full recovery." Recovery? _Fuck, _yeah. His eyes fell upon the burning welts that the ropes had seared into his skin, and already, he was beginning to harden at the sight. It had been far too long.

He licked his lips and tensed for round two when she suddenly declared, "You are now free to leave."

His eyes snapped open. "L—leave?" he spluttered in confusion.

"Yes, leave," she repeated, unfazed. "Please do so at your earliest convenience. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other business to attend to. Good day to you, Mr Malfoy."

She gathered up her things and scribbled a few last notes onto her clipboard before turning away. Away from him.

The orgasmic bliss that had taken him over a few moments ago quickly began to dissipate as an odd ache started to set in. Not that he was complaining about receiving the best fucking head of his life, but when it came to Hermione, it wasn't enough. It was _never_ enough. He liked oral, and he _really _liked anal, but it wasn't the same—it wasn't the same as sliding deep into her, filling her up and stretching her out, hearing his name wrenched out of her with each tilt of his hips, and watching her face as she trembled and shattered beneath their heavy thrusts, her eyes shining as they stared straight into his… as if her small body couldn't possibly handle the pleasure… as if no else would ever fuck her as good… as if she would never leave him.

Clenching his jaw, he made up his mind and clambered out of bed. He didn't know what sort of spell Hermione had used to keep Madam Pomfrey from walking in on them, but he hoped that she hadn't cancelled them yet, because he was nowhere near through with her.

Funny, really, how so many twits in this school referred to him by silly names like the Slytherin Sex God when in reality, it was Hogwarts' resident bookworm who came up with more than half of the kinky shite they did. He never played the good little sub for _anyone, _only her. Because she was the only woman who could spank him and make him like it.

He'd discovered more about himself and his own boundaries with her than with all of his other conquests combined. He'd always considered himself the dominant one in all of his sexual escapades, but it wasn't until he'd shagged Hermione that he realised he was actually a switch. And conveniently enough, so was she.

He had her hands in his grasp and her breasts pressed up against the wall in record time, her clipboard clattering to the ground beside her as she shrieked in shock, "Mr Malfoy! What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Honestly, what did she _think _he was doing? She'd practically sucked his _brains _out through his dick. Now it was time to return the favour and fuck _her _out of her stupidly brilliant mind and back into it.

"I don't think I'm quite ready to leave yet, Nurse," he drawled in her ear. She shivered and flinched, struggling with her attempts to cringe away from his touch. "I seem to be experiencing a slight relapse in my—ah, 'lower pelvic region.' Perhaps you can assist me in _relieving _me of my discomfort." He smirked at his own cleverness, lewdly rubbing himself into the rut of her arse and forcing her hips against the wall.

She flailed and writhed uselessly against him, begging, "Stop,_ please! _NO! Mr Malfoy, please let me go!" His dick had awoken from its brief blackout and was now practically leaping up and down and slobbering with joy at the sound of her frightened cries. "Mr Malfoy," eh? Well, according to his Granger-to-Malfoy Dictionary of Playtime:

1) Malfoy = "keep going"/"I'm practically creaming my knickers like a naughty little schoolgirl"

2) Draco = "slow down"/"I'm being fucked so good, I'm not even bothering to stay in-character"

3) Ron = "your pig-headed idea of a safe-word"/"STOP TOUCHING ME THIS INSTANT, YOU USELESS BASTARD"

Thus, as far as he was concerned, he was nothing more than a humble servant, just following orders.

He yanked her by the hair and dragged her back towards the cot, throwing her facedown onto the mattress and bending her arse up. Gods, she was a vision, her hair dishevelled, face flushed, and her lips red and swollen from his cock. Her cunt was surely soaking with excitement… He scrunched her clinging gown up to her hips, letting out a deep groan as he saw that she wasn't wearing anything underneath except for her garter belt. Her pussy opened slightly in invitation, the lips dark and glistening with need. He immediately squelched his fingers inside and proceeded to thrust away. She was already dripping onto his palm, and he flushed with triumph as he suddenly realised that the mere act of sucking him off had done this to her.

He rewarded her enthusiasm by fucking her with his hand as she helplessly clutched the covers and screamed, tears streaming down her face and soaking the sheets. "Don't! _Stop!" _she whimpered.

"What was that? 'Don't stop?'" he taunted, prying her pussy apart with one hand and shoving into her feverish, leaking hole with his other.

"_Please! NO, we mustn't!" _she wailed, even as her cunt clamped down on his fingers and protested as he pulled out, leaving her quivering and drenched in her own stickiness.

He laughed darkly. "I fail to see the problem, Nurse Granger. Isn't it your duty to attend to your patient's needs?" he sneered.

She let out a quavering sob as he kicked her legs further apart and buried himself bollocks-deep in her slick, desperately clenching pussy. He rode her roughly as she scrambled to keep her footing, clinging to the creaking frame and bunching the sheets beneath her flailing body as each angled shove slammed her into deep, guttural keens of ecstasy.

"What's the status of my cock, Nurse?" he chuckled, nearly breathless from the rapid snapping of his hips. "Is it large and strong enough to pass inspection?"

She merely sniffled in response, begging him not to go so deep or thrust his hips like _that. _"It's so hard! So _deep!_ I can't take it!" she moaned.

He rumbled with cruel amusement as he rammed the ridge of his cock down against the front wall of her cunt and made her cry even harder. "Perhaps we need to run a few more tests," he ground out. "Don't worry, Nurse, I'll be sure to come _deep _inside and fill you up so you can get the most accurate reading." He promptly seized her hips and rutted out her abused hole until he exploded into her once more.

_"No! _Please don't come _inside _of me! _Oh, _Mr Malfoy, you complete and utter _beast!" _she whined, even as her cunt succumbed to its baser instincts and descended upon the rigid, undeniably male phallus slipping in and out of its gluttonous, slavering hold.

He moaned, tossing his head back with a roar, screwing his eyes shut, and coming even harder, lifting her arse, twisting her legs about his waist, and burying himself even deeper as she screamed and wept about how his size, how deep he was, how powerful his spurts were, the way his seed was burning her from the inside out, and how he was going to get her with child.

She rippled gently over him, drowning them in a sea of their combined fluids. Their mating was beautiful, raw, and animalistic in its intensity. If he didn't know better, he would've said he'd emptied his very soul into her. His mind was clear and his muscles had finally lost all of the tension and anxiety that had plagued him for the past few days, yet the moment he pulled away from her, he felt both bereft and vulnerable in a way that he couldn't quite explain.

Shakily, he hitched his breeches back up and collapsed onto the bed beside her, sitting up in surprise when she climbed onto his lap, tucked her head beneath his chin, and nestled into the contours of his body. He automatically wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, burrowing his nose into her hair and taking comfort in the sweetly familiar scent.

"I missed you," he whispered, half-hoping she wouldn't hear. But she did. She always did.

"I missed you too, you sneaky little ferret," she sassed back, her voice still slightly raspy from her impassioned screams. She mischievously wiggled her hips and laid a wet smooch on the bottom of his jaw.

That was when he realised what was bothering him. Well, partially anyway. He hadn't kissed her yet. He'd simply used her like a whore and gotten off _twice _in one session, without snogging her once. And there were few things that he enjoyed more in this world than silencing Hermione Granger.

He immediately leaned down and captured her swollen lips before she could escape, sliding his tongue in as she gasped and growling at the salty taste of his semen that lingered upon her palate. She shuddered at the rough possessiveness of his strokes, lifting her hands to his face with a gentle caress and opening herself to him. Her hands were small, soft, and warm, and he moaned with longing, tilting his head to nuzzle his cheek against her palm and pulling desperately at her lips as he plunged his tongue in as deep as he could manage. She whimpered helplessly as he slid in and out at a selfish pace, slaking his thirst with hungry, wet smacks and relishing licks. His hands shook as he slowly slid them up her waist and rubbed his thumbs over the sweaty fabric that clung to her nipples. She whimpered as he squeezed her and flooded her mouth with his need. Saliva seeped from the creases of her lips and he immediately flicked his tongue out to lap down her chin and slip back inside before she even had a chance to protest the loss. Surging forth, he claimed her tongue for his own and sucked it until he couldn't bear the position any longer.

He released her and rested his forehead against hers, flickering his eyes shut and gasping for air. She panted hotly into his open mouth before leaning in to press a soft, gentle kiss onto his lips that burned him so deeply, he nearly stopped breathing.

"Draco?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly with concern.

He opened his eyes and met her tender gaze—the gaze he'd once thought was nothing but a dull brown. Nothing but the colour of mud. Now, her eyes were shining so brightly, they could almost pass as gold. She made him feel so exposed, so terrified, and yet so curiously excited at the same time. He felt compelled to say something, _anything, _to liberate himself from the odd compression in his chest.

"I love you—r eyes," he stuttered lamely, flushing in shame.

_Why? _Why couldn't he just fucking say it? He'd already admitted it enough times in his head, to the point where he was nearly desensitised to the notion, he'd mentioned it countless times in passing whenever he bickered and bantered with Hermione, and it was _pitifully _obvious in his actions, but he still couldn't bring himself to say those three infuriating words on their own—no pretence, no preamble, just him and his pathetic insecurities.

"I love your eyes too," she smirked back, never missing a beat.

"Is that so? Tell me more about my beastly ways, Nurse Granger," he demanded with playful arrogance.

"Why, yes, Captain Malfoy," she giggled, batting her eyelashes in a mockery of worshipful devotion. "Let's see," she began, lightly running her hands through his hair. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and purr in contentment, like that ugly cat of hers that he secretly wished dead. "I love your sexy uniform. And your ridiculous blond hair. And maybe it's too soon to say this, but I hope that someday I'll—" She broke off suddenly, tearing her hands away and gasping in horror.

"_NO! Gods, no!" _she wailed, bursting into tears.

Alarmed, Draco held onto her as tightly as he could without suffocating her, frantically rubbing her back in a vain attempt to subdue the gut-wrenching sobs that were cascading down the front of his robes. "Hermione?" he shakily inquired. "Hermione, what's wrong?"

"_EVERYTHING!" _she screeched, startling him out of his wits.

Fuck, maybe it was that time of the month again. She was always over-emotional and even more crabbier than usual the week before she got her monthlies, when it should be _him _getting crabby about having to deal with no sex and a blobbing bitch for days on end. Or perhaps she was upset about something else. Something about _him._

_Please don't leave me, _came the fleeting cry of his fractured and twisted soul. He silently berated himself for his selfishness. But he couldn't help it, any more than he could help his feelings for her. There was simply something about Hermione that brought out both the best and worst of him.

She never cried. Not like this. And especially not in front of him. Something was seriously wrong, and it scared the living shit out of him.

"Draco," she sobbed.

"I'm here," he assured her.

"Draco, I_—_I love you _so _much," she wept, clinging to him as she trembled.

_Blast, _he was _not _going to cry! "I love you too," he croaked.

That only made her sob harder. Clearly, the world _did_ end if he ever confessed his condemnation aloud.

He was beyond perturbed. He had no fucking idea what to _do _anymore. Should he try speaking with her again? At the moment, she seemed to be incapable of coherent speech. Should he simply settle for holding her near and allowing her to emotionally purge herself upon him as if he were her personal washcloth? _NO! _His mind screamed at him to assuage his woman, citing her distress as an affront to his masculine honour and ability to provide for his mate. It was making him sick with dread, and although he knew logically that it wasn't the first time they'd played out a rape scenario, he couldn't bear the thought that he'd still somehow managed to hurt her. Hadn't he done enough to her when they were little?

He dropped his face into her shoulder and choked out, "Is it because of me? Did _I_—did I hurt you?"

"Merlin, _no!"_ she cried, her voice quivering but firm in its conviction. "Draco, you were _perfect!_ I was trying _so_ hard not to b-bugger things up and c-come the entire time!"

His morale instantly shot through the roof and he laughed out loud in relief. "You were _magnificent, _love. That was so _bloody _hot. I hereby dub thee Hermione Jean Granger, Gryffindor Sex Goddess," he declared, kissing her fondly on the top of her beautiful, bushy head.

She blubbered in protest, and he gave her a firm squeeze, smirking triumphantly at her obvious mortification. "Don't worry, it'll be our little secret," he assured his blushing lion cub, lowering the tone of his voice to reach all the way down to her womb.

Only one man was in on this secret, and he would make sure it stayed that way. Which reminded him… He'd been waiting for months to ask her this question. It was now or never. He was _Draco Malfoy,_ he reminded himself. He could do this!

He took a deep breath, and expelled in a rush, "Hermione, would you like to spend the holidays with me?"

A terrifying moment of silence followed.

"At the Manor?" she stiffly responded.

"Well, yes," he answered, confused. Where _else _would they be staying? "But we don't have to let my parents know! They never enter my room when I'm at home. You can stay with me, and I'll have the house-elves bring us food—"

She let out a derisive laugh, wiping her eyes with fresh tears of mirth. "Oh, yes, what a splendid Yule that would be—allowing you to smuggle me into Malfoy Manor like a schoolboy with a stray puss and house-elves at my beck and call—yes, _that _would be my idea of a perfect Christmas!"

Oh, fuck. He'd forgotten about that tiny, insignificant little detail. Those blasted elves…

"Well, you can bring them those nice tea cosies you were knitting the other day—"

"They're not tea cosies, they're _hats!" _she snapped.

"Same thing," he dismissed.

"Yes, it's all the same, isn't it, when you don't even have to lift a finger to _clothe _yourself—"

"—honestly don't see what the big fucking deal is. Just because _you_ grew up in a Muggle den without servants doesn't give you the right to judge me—"

"Oh, _that's _rich, coming from you, you bigoted numpty," she sneered.

"Why are we even arguing about this? You should consider yourself bloody lucky that I even invited you at all!" he sneered back.

"You should consider _yourself _bloody lucky that I even _tolerate _you!"

"You're a Muggle-born! And a _girl! _I've never invited _any _girl home, not even _Pansy!"_ he yelled.

"Why, thank you, Malfoy. I'm _so_ flattered to know that my promotion to your latest bed-warmer transcends that of your previous conquests," she spat back at him.

"Oh, _please,_ I don't even want to know what sort of filth has been mouldering away at _your _doorstep," he hissed.

"What an excellent idea, darling," she drolly remarked. "You can spend the holidays with me upon my aforementioned doorstep and I'll add you to the collection."

"_What? _Why would I want to spend the holidays in your Muggle hovel when I live in a _manor?"_

"Begging your pardon, you snotty-nosed prat, it is _not _a hovel, but a _proper_ home, with parents who actually treat you like a human being—"

"I don't know shit about Muggles. How am I supposed to communicate with them?"

"Like you communicate with me, although preferably with less whinging, sneering, and scraping away at the ceiling with your pointy nose—"

"Better than a nose that's dripping with snot! I'm fucking covered in it!"

"It's all _your _fault, you unbelievable arsehole!"

"What the fuck are you going on about, you crazy bint? Are you on the blob again?"

"No, it was because of _you _that I let Jane talk me into doing that _embarrassing _surname test!" she wailed, renewing her monologue of despair and drowning him in wave after wave of emotion. _"She asked me if we were getting married after graduation, and I said I wasn't sure how I felt about that, so she made me write 'Mrs Hermione Malfoy' over and over again, and I_—_I realised that I DID want to marry you! Maybe not right after graduation, but I_—I wanted to start a family with you! I _wanted to have a little boy with your hair and your eyes! I wanted—OH, GODRIC, HOW COULD I BE SO STUPID?"_

He didn't know whether to feel terrified or elated at the unearthly notions that swirled over his head, but one word in particular brought him crashing back down to reality. "Wanted?" he asked quietly, as if making the words less audible would make the truth more bearable. _Wanted, _she'd said. Not _want, _but _wanted._

"_It doesn't MATTER what I want!" _she shrieked."It's never going to happen!"

"WHAT? _WHY NOT?" _he yelled, the pitch of his voice soaring slightly higher than he'd intended. He could hear himself steadily beginning to hoarsen with impending hysteria.

Oh, gods, this was it. His worst fears were confirmed. She was leaving him. She was breaking up with him, and they weren't even in a relationship. She was indirectly murdering him by forcing him to commit suicide—NO, DON'T PANIC! _DON'T PANIC!_

"Because—because we're too different! Our genes—"

"I DON'T FUCKING _CARE_ ABOUT THAT ANYMORE! YOU _KNOW_ THAT—"

"But _I _do!"

"SO _I'M _THE ONE WHO'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR _YOU? _IS THAT IT?"

"_Don't you understand? _You're blond, and I'm a brunette! Your hair is recessive!"

"MY HAIR IS _NOT _RECEDING!"

"Not receding, you twit! _Recessive! _As in homozygous recessive!"

"HOW _DARE _YOU CALL ME A HOMO?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" she huffed, shoving off his lap and proceeding to pace the room in frustration. _Honestly, _the _nerve _of that sanctimonious bitch— "Allow me to express this concept using the most simplified wording possible so that your pureblood and undoubtedly deluded mind can process this information."

He bristled and scowled, irked to no end by her condescending tone. Fucking Muggles.

"The specific gene, or allele, for my hair colour is dominant when compared to yours. Thus, unless I am somehow miraculously heterozygous for blond hair, my alleles are going to take precedence over yours. Understand?"

He scoffed. He might enjoy getting smacked around every once in a while, but no Muggle-born was going to be the boss of him. "That's it? Why can't I just pay someone to find me some dominant eels?"

"You can't just _find _alleles, you daft git! You have to be _born_ with them!"

"With eels?" Now he was really confused.

"With _all_eles!" she screeched.

"_All _of the eels?" he exclaimed. "In Britain?" What the fuck did she need so many eels for? Was this for some sort of spell or potion that he didn't know about?

"Of course not!" she snapped. "That's physically impossible!"

Draco's brain was about to spontaneously combust. He tried a different tactic. "Look, I don't know what the fuck is going on, Hermione, but I'm sure we'll figure out a way—"

"_No!" _she cried, tears streaming down her broken, lovely face. "No, we won't! I'm sorry, Draco, but there are some things that even magic can't fix."

He swallowed. How had it come to this? "Hermione, I—"

"Don't! Just—don't!" she wept. "Please, Draco, there's nothing you can do. I—I need some time alone—to mull things over."

"Will I see you later tonight?" he asked, hoping against hope that his voice didn't sound nearly as desperate as he felt.

"No," she sniffled, looking at him with such desolation and regret that he was certain something had shattered inside of him and would never be whole again. "I'm already behind on revising for my exams. I need to do some research—maybe consider some alternative options. Goodnight, Draco."

She waved her wand with an air of finality, dispelling all of the muffling and disillusionment charms she'd put up around the ward and walked out the door without another word. And he was alone once more.

But he didn't care. She was nothing to him. She was saving him the trouble, really. He should be finding Theo and celebrating with a trio of slags and a bottle of Firewhiskey, not wasting another second on that filthy little Mudblood. He was going to be fine. Just fine. And that was the last sane thought that passed through Draco's head before Theo finally ended the spell, deciding that he'd seen enough.

All right, so he had to admit, that wasn't _nearly_ as bad as he thought it was going to be.

It was worse.

* * *

><p>TO BE CONTINUED<p> 


End file.
